No, it's nobody's birthday. At least not anybody I know. I just couldn't think of a clever title, and I decided I will write a little bit about my thoughts on children's birthday parties, as it's part of one of two adult book projects I'm tossing around in my head. Or, rather, finally getting down to working on. In the next couple of days I will try to sum them both up, as I want the concepts to be less amorphous before deciding which is more immediately feasible and compelling and worthy of shaping into a real proposal.
But what a rambly, boring opening; I am not taking my own advice. Earlier this evening I advised a writer friend to open with a scene, to anchor the reader in a moment, and here I am with the preamble, the circling around, the hemming and hawing that always needs to get chopped in an essay. But I have to remind myself again--NOT an essay, this. A blog entry. A liberation from the form that allows me space and time and flexibility. A way to the work, not the work itself. Ahh. Now I can breathe. And maybe write.
Musical chairs. Does anybody ever play this anymore? We are in Karen Spierling's basement--I can see it now, a proper 1970s basement, made festive with loops of crepe paper and balloons and a card table with Dixie cups of juice and cake and even goodie bags, which contained not stickers or fruit roll ups or anything with any ecological or educational value but candy: plain old candy. And maybe a plastic ring, which would certainly have been made in China. Or somewhere where the plastic was b-a-d, bad. Musical chairs was the centerpiece of the party--Karen must have been 5? Or 6? Now I can't remember how we knew each other, except for the fact that her father was a minister who knew my mother, which makes no sense as my mother had no connection to the Presbyterian Church. Actually, we must have been younger; it must have been preschool. So maybe 4--Lily's age. I can't believe she has the same inner life, the same ability to relish a game of musical chairs, that I had 34 years ago at Karen Spierling's birthday. It actually blows my mind.
But I digress. Really digress. What I am getting at is that the party was in Karen's basement. It was planned by and held by her parents. Her father was a minister; this was not a suburban mansion. It was not a rented party space. It was her basement. The cake was made by her mom. I am certain of this--I don't remember it, but I know it was made by her mom because I don't remember any cake from any childhood birthday party I ever attended that was not made by the birthday kid's mom. My husband's dad made some of his, but that was because his mom wasn't around. Maybe rich people bought cakes, or people who really, really couldn't bake a cake from a box, but I doubt this. I think they were made.
Which is not the point either; I digress again. (And again and again and again--I apologize in advance.) It's not about who made the cake. If it had been bought, at the town's one bakery, or the local grocery store, the party would still have been in Karen's basement, and we still would have played musical chairs, and it would have been all the excitement we needed--the racing heart as the music seemed to slow, the false stop and then the push from behind, the hurling into the folding chair, the occasional toppling off or crash--full body slam--into another child, the hysterical laughter, the release of the laughter, the running, the dizziness, the breathlessness, the genuine, legitimate, nonsensical pride at victory, the prize. I just remembered this! There were prizes! If you won a game, musical chairs, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, potato sack race (I am starting to sound as though I grew up in a 1950s Beverly Hillbillies episode), you got a prize--a rinkydink, plastic nothing, but it meant that you had won; nobody wins anything these days beyond admission to private schools more competitive than Harvard Law or the preternaturally early label of ADD; games are defunct perhaps for this reason: one must be competitive at life, or one's parents must be so on one's behalf, but god forbid one would win the prize for being the best at musical chairs.
Too much digression for one night. Will tackle this in more depth to come. Any birthday memories triggered? Anyone guess where I'm going with this?
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2 comments:
Potato races! Russet potatoes placed on a spoon and bunch of kids galluping down to the 150 year old oak tree and back, and yes, the winner got a prize. Summer birthdays like my sister’s and mine meant that our mom spread out an old bed sheet on the ground and all the guests sat around it and ate homemade cupcakes, not cake. I remember different friends at my parties, because the neighborhood kids all summered elsewhere, and to my shame, one year they all witnessed one of my famous temper tantrums …because here is the thing. I HATED potato races!
My mom ALWAYS made our parties and they were either in our basement (think cracked linoleum floors, boiler room, cobwebs in the windows just below the ceiling, toys everywhere) or in our living room on the floor where each child had a place with a plate and a party hat. She made the cake, the favors, and sometimes our clothes. One year I wanted entertainment and my mother actually dressed up as a clown and my friends loved it. (I, however, was slightly embarrassed.) But yes, I totally see where you are headed and yes, I am guilty of already falling prey to the birthday biz as it were. Yikes! My question is this: If we have to try to be the way our parents were (without even trying) is it the same? Isn't the point that they did what they did because that is what was done? Which leads me to wonder what we are supposed to do...go with what is done now, or harken back to simpler days (which may, in fact, may take more effort). I am totally with you on this one, Ames. I feel like a parent in transition between two completely different eras. Nonetheless, I relish my children's birthdays regardless of where or how they are spent.
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